


Remodeling

by Bitenomnom



Series: Mathematical Proof [43]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, John learns how to delete things, M/M, Mathematics, Mind Palace, Touching, deleting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:26:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitenomnom/pseuds/Bitenomnom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s no way you tapped my arm.”<br/>“Why wouldn’t there be?”<br/>“Because you’ve <i>never</i> touched me.”<br/>Sherlock studied him for a moment more before gasping in an, “<i>Oh</i>.”<br/>“What?”<br/>“While you were deleting some contents of your brain, you were also deleting any sensory input associated with the process.”<br/>“Meaning…”<br/>“Meaning that according to your brain, we have never made physical contact.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remodeling

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the math connection made more sense in my head. XD It's not much -- just that essentially in class today we went through and "redid" things that we went over in linear regressions, but this time for logistic regressions.
> 
> Also, really, really wish I could've spent more time fleshing this out, but unfortunately I had to spend a ton of my time working on a presentation that I have to give tomorrow (which is also why I'm trying to be in bed by 4am...). Maybe I will take another go at this concept later, when I've got more time; I dunno.

When performing generalized linear regressions (see [The Paired Comparison Model](http://archiveofourown.org/works/563526)), such as logistic regressions, one must keep in mind that important tools used in linear regressions, like the residual sum of squares, no longer exist in these models. However, we would like to have something similar to these so that we can analyze these models in a similar fashion. So, instead of using residual sum of squares, we instead end up essentially finding maximum likelihood estimators (see [Maximum Likelihood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/505385)) and find the asymptotic standard error of these estimators. When comparing, say a full and a partial model—something we often do with linear regressions—we’d find the value of the likelihood function for both the full and partial model, and compare these values. We can also use these values to find something that takes the place of linear regressions’ “r squared” value; here, it is called the “residual deviance.” The lower the residual deviance, the better your model is.

 

***

 

 

            John had always been of the mindset that the best way to learn how to do something was to watch it done properly.

            The problem with learning by observation and living with Sherlock at the same time was that one tended to pick up skills one wasn’t exactly expecting to pick up. Tuesday night had been an example of this. Well: not exactly. John had chosen to learn this one deliberately.

            “I’m curious.” He’d sat down across from Sherlock, who was perched on his chair with his feet curled under him, hands just separating from each other and from beneath Sherlock’s chin as he appeared to wake up. “How do you do it?”

            “Do what?”

            “Delete things. How do you just…wipe something out of your brain?”

            “How do you forget not to move my fungus experiment after I’ve told you not to?” Sherlock didn’t give him a chance to answer. “It’s simply a more conscious form of forgetfulness.”

            “That doesn’t make sense,” John argued. “Forgetting things is involuntary, for most of us. Usually just things we don’t find important, that pass out of use over time. You can’t really force that.”

            Sherlock’s brows creased, then, as he tried to think of a better way to explain it. “I cannot possibly imagine an explanation that you would comprehend,” he finally concluded.

            “You could let me watch,” John suggested.

            Sherlock finally looked back at John. “What purpose would that serve?”

            John shrugged. “I couldn’t describe to you how every component of a gun was made or the exact physics of how it moves within the gun, but I _can_ shoot.”

            “You can,” Sherlock agreed.

            “I didn’t learn how to do that by learning how all the bits worked, I learned to do that by watching someone else do it, and then trying it myself.”

            “I see.” He seemed pleased by this explanation. “Yes, all right.”

            “Do you do things all at once, or do you just delete little things as you go?” John leaned forward. “Do you have a schedule?”

            “Some of each,” Sherlock said. “But I have a few things I could clear out now, if you’d like to see how it’s done.”

            “Yes.”

            Sherlock hopped from his chair, took a seat on the sofa, and invited John to join him with a glance toward the empty space beside him.

            As he did so, and tried to get comfortable without prodding Sherlock with his elbows and feet, John bit his lip. “Er, thanks, by the way. I figured that since I’ve never really seen you—well—I supposed it might be sort of a private, personal thing.”

            “It is,” Sherlock seemed to be positioning himself in preparation. “I generally avoid doing it with people around. Too many ways to muddle something up.”

            “I’ll keep quiet.”

            “And still.”

            “Sure,” John nodded. “Yes.” After a moment, he added another, “Thank you.”  
            Sherlock turned his head toward John to give him a curious glance before resuming his previous position, not altogether different from how he had been sitting on his chair before, and closing his eyes.

            John could almost feel it when the process began—what he saw was Sherlock’s eyes darting around from behind his eyelids; he swore, from his close proximity, that Sherlock’s temperature rose slightly. His breathing slowed to a glacial pace, and as muscles twitched, John was reminded of Sherlock’s mind palace. Perhaps this process was similar; maybe it was even the same thing. John had been trying out something like a mind palace for himself, not that it was even the slightest bit like a palace at all; still, he could use it as a reference, as a sort of jumping-off point for how it felt to delete things.

            John leaned forward slightly as the process grabbed him by the collar and all but dragged him along; he found himself matching his breathing with Sherlock, could feel the almost electrical energy radiating off him. He could feel every fiber of his being urging him to project himself onto Sherlock, to meditate, to drop into Sherlock’s body in his own mind so that he could feel everything that was going on. As if by hypnosis, he was being drawn in.

 

 

 

            He knew exactly what he would delete, if he could.

            Some, John thought, say that the memories make the person, shape the person. He would agree with that. But he didn’t need to remember every detail of _that_ skirmish, of that gunshot, of the splintering splatter and bone of one of his men’s legs nearly splashing into his face. He didn’t need to remember most of what immediately followed, darkness and unfamiliar faces spitting words and spitting at him and securing his wrists behind him and—

            Well. That was why he wanted to delete it.

            He didn’t need to remember every detail to remember that it happened, and removing the fodder for the worst of his nightmares would change him as a person only as far as that from then on he might be better rested.

 

 

 

            John’s breath was slow; his eyes twitched beneath their lids.

            Sherlock rose from his own meditative state, and, without thinking, touched John’s elbow. “John?”

 

 

 

            Something nudged at the edges of John’s mind as he boxed up that godforsaken hole of a hideaway and imagined himself setting the boxes on fire.

            He pushed back, a little, then more. He lit a match. He threw it onto the third box.

            Something nudged at the edges of John’s mind. He pushed back. He lit a match. He threw it onto the fourth box.

            Something nudged at the edges of John’s mind. He pushed back. He lit a match. He threw it onto the fifth box.

            Something nudged at the edges of John’s mind. He pushed back. He lit a match. He threw it onto the six box.

            And when that box was burned up, John felt the heat lifting him upward, back into fresh air, and he opened his eyes, and gasped in a breath as he surfaced.

 

 

 

            “Did you do it?” Sherlock asked.

            John seemed thoughtful for a moment, searching his mind. “Yeah. I think so.”

            “Excellent,” Sherlock said, and then, after starting with, “What did—” he changed to, “I wasn’t sure if you were trying it, or merely thinking about it. I’d no idea how it looked from the outside. It was almost as if you had fallen asleep.”

            “Well,” John said, “Now you know, I s’pose.”

            “I hope my attempts to rouse you weren’t terribly disruptive.”

            “Hm?” John asked absently, enjoying the freed up space, the fact that he could jog his mind through Afghanistan without freezing and gritting his teeth quite so much, the fact that he could fill _that_ spot up with something much more useful, much less conducive to jerking him awake at three-thirty in the morning, sweating.

             “I said I hope the prodding wasn’t too distracting.”

            “Prodding?”

            Sherlock edged away slightly to take in a more complete view of John’s person, evaluating him. “Yes. I tapped your arm a few times.”

            John thought back. No, no, he definitely didn’t do that, or anyway, John was too busy burning boxes to remember. “I didn’t notice.”

            “Good.”

            John kept thinking.

            He went still.

            “Sherlock…” he said, his eyebrows tucking downward as his mouth creased into a grimace.

            “Yes?”

            John turned toward Sherlock. “There’s no way you tapped my arm.”

            “Why wouldn’t there be?”

            His eyes fixed on some point across the room, away from Sherlock, as he answered. “Because you’ve _never_ touched me.” He took in a slow breath. “I think I’d remember if you did.”

            “Of course I have,” Sherlock said, face twisted to something that looked like part concern, part offense that John would suggest such a thing, and part almost lethal levels of curiosity. “I’ve even punched you, once.”

            John tilted his head back. “I do remember that…” He touched his face, and then turned back to Sherlock. “I only remember that it happened.”  
            “As opposed to…?”

            “I don’t remember how it felt. It’s…flatter. Like it was something that happened in a book or on the telly.”

            Sherlock studied him for a moment more before gasping in an, “ _Oh._ ”

            “What?”

            “While you were deleting some contents of your brain, you were also deleting any sensory input associated with the process.” He folded his hands. “You haven’t much more than a faint idea of what you’re doing, and so, since you likely weren’t thinking about trying to prevent it, your mind extended that process to any of such sensory input in your memory.”

            “Meaning…”

            “Meaning that according to your brain, we have never made physical contact.”

            “ _Jesus_ ,” was all John could think to say, and he was no longer sure if he was reacting to the destructive power his mind could wield on itself, or to the very idea of reaching out to touch Sherlock this instant to see if he could remember how it felt.

            “Do you mind if I conduct an experiment?”

            “Now there’s a question you’ve never asked before,” John tried laughing to lighten the mood, tried to distract himself from the nagging knowledge that now, for him, Sherlock was untouched. There was no longer that first time Sherlock had shoved John’s jacket into his chest and hurried him out the door with a nudge at his shoulders. There was Sherlock, sitting right beside him right now, with whom he had lived for months and months and months and years and months, the space between them practically quivering with electric potential, static over all that time, begging to be discharged.

            Sherlock leaned forward. “It’s because it involves you.”

            “What is it?” John needed to reduce that potential energy, soon, _now_ , as the mere thought of having gone so long untouched rampaged through his mind and re-sorted his priorities.

            Suddenly, Sherlock seemed uneasy. “Perhaps it is a bit— _sentimental_ ,” he frowned at the word, “but things do seem rather one-sided at just this moment.” He took in a deep breath. “If you would give me a moment, I would balance us out.” When John did not nod in understanding, Sherlock specified, “I’ll delete it, too.”

            “It’s your brain,” was all John could think to say, and he tried not to sway forward and into Sherlock.

            “Give me a moment,” Sherlock said, sucking in another breath. “And don’t disturb me.”

 

 

 

            When Sherlock’s eyes slid open again, he turned to John silently, made an attempt at mouthing a few words before giving up.

            John licked his lips.

            Sherlock held up his hand, slowly. “Take my hand,” he said.

            John reached up, spread his fingers and curled them down until they touched the back of Sherlock’s hand, until their palms pressed together. Electricity discharged and crackled around them, tickled up their arms, sped up their hearts, jump-started sluggish blood. They shuddered in unison.

            “That’s amazing,” John finally whispered. Sherlock only continued to stare at their hands. John lifted his other hand to Sherlock’s face, ran his fingers along Sherlock’s cheek and then through his hair. “I think I could get used to this _deleting_ thing.”

            The corners of Sherlock’s mouth lifted.

            “God,” John huffed out, still clutching Sherlock’s hand in his own, still absently running his fingers over Sherlock’s face and head, cupping his hand around Sherlock’s neck. “First you’ve got me solving cases, now you’ve got me deleting, what’s next? I think you’re rubbing off on me, Sherlock.”

            “I’d definitely remember if I’d done that,” Sherlock mumbled into the heel of John’s hand. “Rubbing off on you, I mean. Or is that a suggestion?”

            John shivered, felt more electricity building. “Maybe.”  
           

 

 

            Sherlock threw a blanket over himself and John. They were, by now, quite thoroughly touched. Some rubbing off may have occurred. Neither of them were planning on deleting it anytime soon.

            “You must have asked me about deleting with something particular in mind,” Sherlock said. “But what would you want to delete? Traumatic memories from your service, perhaps? Unpleasant childhood experiences? What was it?”

            John turned onto his side to wrap one arm around Sherlock’s ribcage. “Not nearly as important as what I’m putting in its place.”

            Sherlock gave an antagonized sigh, and threaded his hand into John’s. “You’re right,” he finally agreed, “we do have quite a lot of deleted touching to replace.”


End file.
